Friday, September 21, 2007


Sweet Ana is fatigued and so am I, so I drew us a picture of a sun-bodied happiness fish bleeding roses into a sea of tranquility. My apartment has not flooded, but the plumber is currently tearing out my shower and putting in a fresh one, so in the meantime there is a giant gaping hole in the bathroom floor. Last night I made the mistake of entering it in total darkness, and as soon as I flipped the switch I beheld a herd of ENORMOUS ROWCHES scampering back to their underground lair.


Anonymous said...


Spunky smut is all
Muscle and scar,
A slap that can leave
Your cheek burning.

Smutty spunk can walk
Up on front paws,
And taint you like a skunk
With vile yearning.


An ovulating blowfish
Tossed a wet red flag
At a bullheaded carp, whimpering
“Men are swine!”

“Bull, my dear,” boomed
The bottom feeder, “you smell like
Shrimp, like caviar, and thank you
For the wine in the brine.”

steef said...

Sweet flapping fugu, that's a beautiful picture! Stretches nicely to desktop wallpaper-size, too, though I was loathe to replace my octopus porn. Rest, and recuperate.

Tricia said...

You pay me the highest compliment, steef. My current wallpaper is, of course, that picture of the monkey lovin' on a pigeon, but your porn tempts me.

anonymous, I feel increasingly persuaded that you're kind of a master, albeit you reign in a totally perverted sphere.

Ana Bozicevic-Bowling said...

I can walk again!

Anonymous said...


A stubby blonde with small feet,
Gets in the lane next to me and swims
Like a tuna, though without streams
Of roses or aroma–-which means,
World of water, earth, aroma, ploughed,
The ozone of forest garlic, a bouquet
Of severed nightcrawlers weeping

Their mucus into loam. Its kisses
Taste like devil’s food cake
For carnivores, no sugar, lipstick
Or perfume, first thing in the morning
Or at home, onion so good with tuna,
Sliced, wrapped in waxpaper
By my mother, my bread a bulky.

Anonymous said...


Chase the animal you love and hate
With dogs and a golden arrow. Perversion’s
An intensification of a truth
Otherwise biological and bland, even
The human a cosmetic, a calisthenic.
Check Pierre Klossowski’s musings
On the hunting goddess’s response

To Acteon the buffoon’s intrusion
Into her bathroom–-he too was frenzied
As a roach-–before reading remorse
Into October’s gibbous moon,
When Jason betrayed Medea
For the touch of another’s golden fleece,
Klossowski brother of Balthus.

errant knave said...

i like this picture. a lot. really? yes. really.

errant knave said...

p.s. hey, where'd that gibbous moon come from? hmmm.

Tricia said...

Ana: If all went as planned, you should be able to play the piano now also.

Anon: "Gnome" is my favorite!

Errant: Thank you. As for where the gibbous moon came from, I would give a million dollars to know.

Anonymous said...


It was all this weekend, that huge and buttery
Lima-bean moon, too gorgeous by half,
Lay on its back over Maine and Manhattan
To gaze at the stars with its face
And its belly and if YOU weren’t so busy
Being and achieving a squirt and (you
Supply the rhyme) you could have watched it wax

Into its current, immense and wholesome
Harvest oval and can guess
What it was doing to taunt the cosmos
And a soi-disant but morose
Master pervert, who was, in point
Of actual fact, singing the lonesome song
From Tubby the Tuba to himself and a frog:

“Alone am I,
Me and I together.
If I went away from me,
How unha-appy I would be.
Me and I, oh my.”

(Hint: the moon was neither opening windows nor caring a sou for the more oblique gruntlements of Miroslav Krleza, who complained of places smelling like overheated gymnasiums in high schools for girls.)

Anonymous said...


Patience creates presence. In Greek
Siga means slowly, in Bulgarian, now.
It’s a task for Athena’s original avatars
Of justice and hell, invoked to punish Orestes,
Egged on by Electra to murder Clytemnestra
Their mother. How could you name
A woman for the clitoris? Well,
Her lover, Aigisthus, never complained,

And her sister, Helen, was named after fire.
The Furies, flying hens with ferocious beaks,
Who destroyed Orestes, never considered
Tormenting Electra, matricidal feelings
Among women normal, no violation
Of the higher pieties, siga, siga. What difference
Does it make, for as Yeats said, big,
Broken-hearted Agamemnon was dead.

Anonymous said...


Homo sacer means naked human,
Naked of law and such protective
Ideas as inalienable rights: life, liberty
And the pursuit of happiness,
In descending order. When Christ
Was stripped of his garments
He was homo sacer, likewise

Nailed to the cross as if a deer
Gutted and hung from a tree
On a legal hunter’s front lawn,
Crying in Aramaic, curing to leather
In sunlight on Golgotha, but a deer
Is venison, love-food, like Christ
In dread and awe, and divine suffering.

Anonymous said...


An old lady jammed her garbage dispose-all
With a banana peel: they use baseball bats
To unplug these things, which in the business
Is called a pig. The old bag was starving,
Her refrigerator bare, but still
The plumber doesn’t come. Finally she decides
She’ll run to the store–bologna, American cheese,
Anything–leaving behind her parrot,
But naturally, soon as she’s gone, the man
Soiled with sweat, streaked with pipe grease,
Arrives and wearily bangs at her door. “Who’s there?”
Says the parrot in a quavering voice.
“It’s the plumber!” Say this three times,

Louder and shriller. Watch his neck get red.
See him choke, clutch his chest, fall over
With a heart attack, just as the old skunk
In perfumed underwear, comes wheezing
Up her stairs, sees the open-eyed body lying
Across her threshold, and can barely gasp, “Who’s there?”
And now the parrot answers, harsh and indignant,
“IT’S THE PLUMBER!” At this juncture,
The pig is unrepaired, while on other fronts, Poetry
Magazine arrived in the mail. Mary Jo Bang
Says Alice’s behind, head stuck in the rabbit hole,
Looks like a stuffed panda. Otherwise,
As the plumber would say if alive, “What drek!”

Anonymous said...


That lollipop who wrote poetry
At my daughter’s alternative college
Was at the pool today, slipping her vanilla
Accessories into its aseptic
Emerald clear water. No eye contact,
Smiling nebulously, I’d say, as if holding
A card in the booby-prize lottery
In the moment before the winning number
Is called, or tolled, tucking the bun

Of her quietly matronly hair
Under her swimming-cap wimple, so that
Her furred, miniature, underarm hamsters
Were deployed like wolf decoys,
But this old troll had already paddled his laps
And toddled back to the men’s locker
Whipsawed by the mirrors in that funhouse
Of gravity and thoughts of jolly folly,
Male nakedness, sagging and soggy.



I’ve dug a coal and diamond mine with no flues,
And must report the death of the canary.
This is from the poison gas which accrues
From bleak week after week’s dearth of commentary.
Therefore, ciao for now, all of youse, amigos.

Ta ta! Pip pip! Cheerio! Enjoy your jogs to Tipperary.
Remember what Quixote said to Sancho Panza,
That goose, when the Don cashed in forever:
“There are no birds this year
In last year’s nest, I’m very sorry.”

Tricia said...

Anonymous! You're not leaving? I was beginning to believe that you were in the possession of bottomless resources.

Anonymous said...


Filthy, funny, forlorn, but where’s the choir?
Joan of Arc’s chevalier, Gilles de Rais or
Bluebeard, world’s first blogger, stuffed silos
With boys too eagerly fleeing the laborious
Mud of reality to ride on the nice man’s
Moebius race-track of a desirous horse,
While Porphyria’s blackbird in the woodpile
Whetted his own perverse remorse on Neil Young’s

“Down to the Wire,” or “Tired Eyes,” lines like,
‘What d’you mean he had bullet holes
In his mirror?’ Tonight’s the night, and either
Quixote takes a flier or Tricia resumes weaving
Weird (it means wayward) art and taunting
With sauciness that troglodyte who mistook
Her girly-wig site for an interest in HARMONIUM,
Hangs out only when marginally welcome.

Tricia said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Tricia said...

"who mistook/ Her girly-wig site for an interest in HARMONIUM"

Zing! Also, "girly-wig"? Whatever that is, I'm guilty as charged.

As for your ringing indictment of my lassitude--these things take time, my baby. This kind of realism doesn't come easy.

I do love a good ultimatum, though, so thanks for indulging me in that regard.